NAMING THE FUTURE by David ERDOS - Poem 10 from AT THE GATES

 

NAMING THE FUTURE

 

 

 

While most of us seek a fresh world, some of us                              

Keep an eye on strange weather. In London today,

Sun was shining despite the active bite in the air.

 

It was a new form of shock, a crack in the wind

To remind us that if we are to be finally free

Of our houses there may yet be borders behind which

 

We all will need to beware. These may range

From the barriers of the heart to those of once familiar

Countries, made all the more strange now that Brexit

 

Spreads its contagion like germ across ground

That everyone from Blake to the Beatles sang of,

If only to hold onto something. And yet this place

 

Was never that. Its empiric dream just playacting,

With the horrors within less profound. From its Victorian

Pomp to the violence inflicted under The Raj and in Kenya,

 

You will hear all sorts of end in the echo of that bloodstained

Green sleeved sound. Of that time Pete Docherty’s drug singed

Sprawl mumbled stuff, but only Ray Davies sang clearly.

 

Sadly, that suburban Kink’s call for glory has been mishandled

And clogged in the throats of those who wouldn’t know change

If it came to carouse with, or corrupt them. For those British racists

 

Who sought this dark dream watch hope float. The question is

Will we dig and start to unearth better places? Will we substantiate

Part glimpsed freedoms or start to realise we’re what’s shaped?

 

Meanwhile, shops here stock their shelves while those in Northern

Ireland stand empty. I fall in love and work wildly to try to find myself

A new way in which the ghosts of the past populate lost museums

 

And where the galleries that are growing from one woman’s

Figure and face let light play. As we balance desire and day,

You can see each hope move, like that scene in Cinema Paradiso,

 

Where Philippe Noirret as Alfredo moves the projectionist’s beam

Through the street. The film is caught on the air much like this particular

Woman I dream of, and yet in its flight rests the future, as new chances

 

To win crest defeat. So, this is a transitional time, what with

This long-promised end to the sentence, in which those Covid’s

Written and even judged learn reform. While gargling at our gates

 

And behind our curtains too, fresh springs bubble, bearing

Split cells across water and which reboiled from tears, may explore

And also transform the imprisonments we’ve endured into a stretch

 

Of spine and soul that resolves us, allowing in time for solutions

Where no needle pins worried hearts. For just as Covid mutates,

So does the still furtive future. We just need to chase it down

 

And convince it to co-write with us roles and parts - that will

Place us all on a stage in which an as yet unwritten play sets

The drama for lives of love and wonder and challenge and dare

 

And support. It’s what I’ve been wanting for years, and so

I make my own calls to convey it. Across long tired oceans

I now glimpse islands and light and smooth shores

 

In which I nuzzle into her neck and seek her kiss, while horizons

Which are of course rarely constant adjust themselves hourly.

Nothing is certain of course but faith at least can find focus.

 

Yet as the colours run, some tones settle, while others as tears

Still fall free. The picture changes each time. We just have to find

The right portrait. So, one is reflected now, on the surface.

 

I stare into the screen and this paper. I won’t tell you the name.

She may leave. But if she does, I will have at the very least

Felt a future; for even in this room separated from both contact

 

And God love believes. Even, of course if fate eventually

Makes us agnostic, the name in today’s special letters

Becomes a religion to spell secretly. We do not know what awaits

 

As we emerge from our prisons. But just as the butterfly rises

From the chrysalis shroud days are made for which those who

Believe become God and where those who don’t ape that story

 

As we evolve, the Bibles under which we have been placed

Grant sharp shade. Will we stay and abide? For now, I seek her hand.

Her smooth shadow. But even if it retreats warmth, in warning

 

Will have given future hope its next name.

 

 

 

David Erdos March 1st 2021 

 

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.